


'Watch me.'

by hatchets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Commander Rogers, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Naive Steve Rogers, Oral Sex, Orders, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 06:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatchets/pseuds/hatchets
Summary: Rumlow gets a rise out of Cap in more ways than one.





	'Watch me.'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beaufort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beaufort/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Смотри на меня](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278879) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> takes place vaguely at the beginning of winter soldier when cap is working with the strike team and rumlow and yada yada yada

Brock Rumlow was an asshole, and Steve could never tell if he was the companionable, shooting the shit kind of asshole, or just a regular asshole.

Were they friends? No. But Captain America was short on people who could make eye contact without stuttering or breaking into a meeting-your-celebrities sweat. Brock Rumlow, with his borderline confrontational ribbing and always off color commentary, was his best option when Natasha wasn’t around. And most of the time she wasn’t. The Black Widow had a certain kind of freedom he didn’t, a freedom that she leveraged for herself in her disappearances and aliases, and no matter how hard he tried to regain his footing and get ahead of the curve, he was still just

“Steeeve Rogers.”

Rumlow was at it again.

“ _Captain_ America.”

It was a dark, desolate, _long_ hallway, and at the end of it there was the bomb squad, and here buried under the city, he and Brock Rumlow were keeping subterranean guard in case the bomb-planters decided to come see why their improvised daisy cutter hadn’t leveled downtown Seattle. Because _that_ was where they were most needed. Was he being punished, or babysat? He couldn’t tell the difference.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned against his wall and hoped Rumlow would take the hint and shut up.

He didn’t.

“When you’re off avenging, is it Steve, or is it Captain? Just Cap? Is there a difference off the field when you’re face to face, slinging cocktails with Stark? I always wondered. You guys ever get around to nicknaming?”

Rumlow was leaning against his wall too, the opposite wall, giving them about five feet of distance. It was a maintenance tunnel of some kind and it felt cramped. Rumlow didn’t look cramped. He looked comfortable. He had his firearm, SHIELD’s unholy offspring of the AK-47, leaning untouched against the wall. He had his arms crossed. He looked at Steve with that shit-giving face, that you-are-my-entertainment face.

“No,” said Steve shortly.

“Don’t tell me you call him Iron Man to his face.” Rumlow grinned.

“Not really,” said Steve, and he thought he would take Tony at his most condescending over Rumlow’s prickling.

“Crazy,” said Rumlow. He looked at the ceiling, stretched out one of his arms, and proceeded to crack his knuckles leisurely, one at a time. “I thought I had seen some weird shit, but you guys. Aliens. _Aliens._ Is that why you make sure the rest of your life is so boring?”

There it was. How was he supposed to take that? Laugh it off? Was that an insult?

“Relax,” said Rumlow, looking at Steve over stretching his other arm, cracking his other knuckles. He could see the rise he was getting, itching under Steve’s skin, and now he moved to soothe it. “I’m just asking. Do you do anything but work, run, and go home? Are you under orders?”

“What orders?”

“To do nothing. To work, run, and go home, and nothing else.” Arms sufficiently stretched and joints sufficiently cracked, Rumlow crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that your choice, or is that just you following orders?”

The answer was a combination of neither, but Steve just said, “Why can’t it be both?”

Following orders that matched up with his own choices - that was _supposed_ to be his life.

Rumlow accepted his non-answer answer in silence and looked at him steadily for a long time, with an almost uncomfortable intensity. Steve tried to listen for a sign from either end of the tunnel but knew that a reprieve would be a long while coming yet. That was the worst part of being a soldier. Of playing the hero. Those tedious hours spent waiting to know if you were going to have to be one or not.

Rumlow interrupted what was sure to be a bleak trip down memory lane. “You ever suck a dick, Rogers?” he asked.

It was not the first time Rumlow had asked him that.

The last time, he had shouted it in SHIELD’s equivalent of a locker room, the sweaty and acrid smelling quarters of changing out uniforms and armor, where nudity happened casually and often, and Rumlow had taken the opportunity to bait him about whether he was or wasn’t taking in the scenery.

Steve had escaped with an eye roll and a towel around his waist. 

“No,” he said, shutting down that line of questioning before Rumlow had the opportunity to enjoy even a hint of his embarrassment. He didn’t have a reason to be embarrassed, he told himself. “I haven’t.”

“So, my chances of getting head while we wait," said Rumlow. “Slim to none?”

“None is generous,” said Steve, matching his dry tone.

“You ever _get_ your dick sucked?”

This time Steve didn’t answer right away, except for a click in the back of his throat that was a suppressed throat clearing.

“Not ever?” asked Rumlow, assuming a lot from his silence and his face before he had the chance to answer.

“Not any of your business,” said Steve, putting his foot down on that line of questioning.

“It’s not an insult." Soothing him, again. "Just a missed opportunity. I guess you missed out on a lot when you were on ice, huh?”

Was he being an asshole? Sympathetic? Steve couldn’t read his face, which Rumlow seemed to be keeping intentionally mum even as he maintained eye contact.

“You don’t have to keep missing out on things,” said Rumlow.

Life advice?

“Let me suck you off,” said Rumlow.

Before Steve could manage a “Very funny”, Rumlow had crossed that minimal distance between them. They stood almost nose to nose. Steve’s spine prickled and went rigid, and he stood his ground - not that there was any place to go, with his back to the tunnel wall.

Rumlow looked at him with those too intent eyes. There was a hint of that shit-giving smile on the corner of his mouth. He gave Steve his moment of silence, his opportunity to step out, sideways along the wall, to duck out from the eye contact and the faint touch of Rumlow’s breath on his face. Then Rumlow reached down and very decisively unzipped Steve's pants.

With no preamble, he exposed Steve’s dick and took it in his hand. The physical shock, the sudden cold air eclipsed by the heat of his grip, zipped up Steve’s spine to the nape of his neck, raising hairs. He bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say a word. He might have flushed.

Rumlow, observing that, seemed satisfied that he was compliant. He dropped to his knees.

“Watch me,” he said.

Steve followed his orders. He looked down. With only a faint echo of _'Is this happening? Is this actually, really happening?_ in his head, he watched.

Rumlow stroked him hard in a matter of seconds, watching him grow with relish, and then gripped him and kissed the head of his dick almost aggressively in a way that made Steve’s abs clench. He looked up to make sure Steve was looked back. Then he dragged his tongue down, from the head to the very base of his dick, all the way back up, and then pressed his lips over the top of his dick and practically swallowed it.

Unwelcome heat coursed through Steve’s body. It coiled in his chest and throbbing almost painfully as Rumlow bobbed up and down on his dick with a purpose. His lips were firm. He was hard, and efficient.

Steve kept watching. He was helpless to look away, to say a word, to do anything. His hands were curled into fists to stop them grabbing something, digging into the coarse wall.

_Is this really happening?_

It felt like a nightmare of a wet dream.

Rumlow sucked hard, and Steve felt some kind of moan growing in his throat. He threw his head back against the wall, gritted his teeth, and swallowed the sound.

Rumlow took his mouth away and said, “I thought I told you to watch me.”

His voice was a low, droll order with an edge to it.

Steve did look, looked down to see his own hard dick wet with spit, and Rumlow gripping it loosely at the base, rubbing a thumb softly up and down the shaft. Rumlow’s nails dragged very softly over his hip. Steve’s spine crawled.

“You want me to swallow your cum," asked Rumlow. "Or would you rather see it all over my face?” He clearly enjoyed the expression his words provoked. He pressed his lips against the head of Steve’s dick as he kept talking. His voice was so gentle and smooth, soft. “You want me to make this happen fast? Slow? We’ve got the time. I can edge you out. Make you sweat for it.”

“No,” said Steve, not knowing what he was saying no to.

“You wanna fuck my face?” said Rumlow, and he kept caressing his dick, running his fingers up and down it, just playing with it. “You wanna turn around, let me eat you out? You ever have someone’s tongue down there? Licking, and sucking you, until you can hardly take it, till you come without ever touching yourself?”

Rumlow reached down with his free hand, unsnapping his own pants, bringing his dick out hard and rubbing it. His breath was coming a little faster against Steve’s skin. “You ever have someone fuck you up against the wall?" That aggressive edge was growing in his voice. "Ever had someone pound you so hard you forget your own fucking name?”

“No,” said Steve again, feeling agonized, disgusted, and wanting to grab Rumlow by the back of the head and get his mouth back on his dick. He felt cold and hot all at once. Hungry and sickened and desperate all at once.

“No,” agreed Rumlow, with satisfaction, sounding like the first man on the moon, the first man stepping off on some virgin isle. Triumphant, almost jealously triumphant. He sucked down the side of Steve’s dick as he dug his nails into his hips, and Steve couldn’t help it, he arced his back into the warmth of Rumlow’s tongue and made a soft humiliating sound. “You really want it,” said Rumlow, not asking. He sucked the head of his dick a few times, very gently. “Watch me,” he said. “I want you to watch yourself cum.”

Rumlow sucked his head once more, hard, and then pressed down, his lips squeezing all the way down his shaft, and Steve dug his fingers into the wall and gave up the groan he had been holding back.

Rumlow kept sucking him hard. The pull of his lips and his tongue, sliding wet and warm under the seal of his lips, felt unbelievable.

Steve watched. He couldn’t even look away, couldn’t move a muscle except his clenching, rolling stomach, the arching of his back. He was flashing back embarrassed over every clutching orgasm done alone in furtive darkness. He could feel the familiar white reel of his orgasm coming, but this time he had no grip on it, no control, and this felt a hundred times better and more humiliating than jerking off by himself.

Rumlow kept sucking him. It kept building up inside of him, in the rigidity of his own body, until he finally came, and kept coming in half-painful waves as Rumlow kept sucking hard, too hard. He was almost blind with the feeling, which hurt, which felt so good he felt like he would never stop coming. Rumlow was swallowing as Steve was coming, and digging his nails hard into that juncture of hip and thigh. Steve was breaking the wall in his fingertips. “Please,” he said raggedly. He said something else, but he couldn’t hear it for the pounding in his ears, the pounding in his whole body. Every muscle was pulsing uncontrollably.

Rumlow let him go, and Steve rested his head against the back of the wall and closed his eyes to breathe.

God, his whole body was trembling.

He didn’t know how he stayed on his feet. He might have collapsed if Rumlow hadn’t straightened up and pressed him back against the wall. His face tucked itself under Steve’s chin and pressed his head further back and up, breathing against his throat.

“Did that feel good?” asked Rumlow. He was still holding Steve’s dick, very gently, and then let go and trailed his hand down his thigh. He stroked his thigh as if soothing away the violence of his orgasm.

Steve turned his head away, feeling suddenly hyperaware of his pants almost to the ground, the vulnerability of his position and naked groin, but Rumlow was stroking the inside of his leg and holding him against the wall with the force of his own humiliation.

Rumlow ran a hand up his chest and around his shoulders, reaching up to grip the back of his neck. His fingertips dug into the sweaty nape of his neck. And without saying a word, without needing to explain, he pulled Steve's head forward and pushed him down, until Steve was on his knees, and Rumlow’s hard dick was in his face.

Rumlow rubbed himself casually next to Steve’s mouth.

“You don’t have to be good at it,” he said. “Just part your lips and let me put it on your tongue.”

He was too stunned not to.

Steve let Rumlow do it, let Rumlow press his dick against his lips and then push inside his mouth. Rumlow’s fingers were still gripping the back of his head.

“That feels really good,” said Rumlow, almost reassuring him, with that tone of _'you’re doing a great job_. “Close your lips.”

Steve did. He did what he was told to do. Rumlow’s dick tasted like skin, inoffensive, but feeling somehow bigger in his mouth than it had looked in Rumlow’s hand. Steve didn’t do anything but seal his lips, curled his fingers in Rumlow’s belt, and numbly let Rumlow press the head of his dick in and out. Pressing down against his tongue. Pulling it out and rubbing it lewdly over his lips, his cheek, and then pressing it back in.

“Fuck,” said Rumlow, under his breath. “You look good with a dick in your mouth, Rogers.”

Rumlow started to fuck his mouth a little more purposefully, a little deeper and harder. “Just breathe,” he suggested, his fingers tight in Steve’s hard. “Just relax, just relax.” His hips were pumping faster. Steve felt like he was going to start choking on it, felt spit gathering in the corner of his lips, and he tried to swallow, and then Rumlow pushed his whole dick into his mouth and did choke him.

He pulled out before Steve had the chance to pull away, and let him stop to cough. Rumlow rubbed his dick still in front of his face. It was shiny with spit. Steve looked up, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The absolute satisfaction in Rumlow’s face, the complacency of knowing the extent of his control, compounded the embarrassment in Steve's hot face. He wiped his lips.

“Not bad, for a first try,” said Rumlow. “Here. Let me just jerk it into your mouth. Just suck the head. It’s easy.” Without waiting for permission, he pushed his dick back between Steve’s lips once more. And he kept to his word and didn’t try to fuck his throat again. He only jerked the shaft, while pushing the head against Steve’s tongue, muttering “Suck it, suck it, just a little harder, that’s it-” until his breath was coming faster and he ceased to utter his little commands, and then with little more than a grunt he came, mostly inside Steve’s mouth.

Steve coughed against, feeling cum on his lips and chin, tasting it. Rumlow kept pumping, coming against his lips, until he was completely dry, rubbing himself a few more times for good measure.

“How’s that taste?” he asked, as if Steve should have liked it.

Steve said nothing, only wiped the cum off his lips, then looked at his hand. He didn’t know where to wipe it. On his clothes? On the wall? He shook his hand and it spattered against the ground. It was still in his mouth. Rationally, he thought, he swallowed, just to get it out of the way, and immediately reality rocketed back into his brain.

He was on his knees, his pants around his ankles, half naked, Rumlow’s cum was sliding down his throat and Rumlow’s hand was still controllingly gripping his head.

Steve jerked loose and scrambled up, pulling his pants up. He fastened them as quickly as he could, as if that could somehow recover his dignity. Numb. Numb, that was all he felt, as his brain struggled to keep up with what had only taken minutes, what had felt like hours.

“See what happens when you stop taking orders?” asked Rumlow. He sounded properly postcoital and relaxed. He was cracking his knuckles again, stretching luxuriously, not even having bothered to fasten his pants or put his dick away so Steve didn't have to look at it. “That was more fun than guard duty, wasn’t it?”

Steve looked him in the eye again. Rumlow looked steadily back, knowingly. Satisfied. Provocative.

He knew what he had done. He knew what he had won.

Steve looked away. He looked at the ground. He checked his comm pointlessly.

Not a word from anyone.

It could still be hours before they were done here, hours alone in the half-dark with Brock Rumlow, and the faint smells of sweat, semen, and satisfaction.


End file.
